


These Bloodstains

by NotAFlyinToy



Series: How The World Fell Under Darkness [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Reaper, Another Sad One You Guys, Jack Is Just Playing Coy, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAFlyinToy/pseuds/NotAFlyinToy
Summary: After the death of a Blackwatch Agent, Gabriel seeks a familiar face and doesn't get what he wants.





	These Bloodstains

Gabriel had attended his fair share of funerals - had missed more than a few, too, due to the nature of the job. A public appearance by an agent of Blackwatch was a risk taken, so most resorted to holding their own private funerals with a glass of something strong. Their eulogies took the form of memories, the procession one through inside jokes and shared drinks after missions survived.

 

Gabriel sat now, on a cheap polyester bar stool, staring into something cheap and bottom shelf that could peel the rust from a nail. He swirled the dark liquid in a small cracked glass, listened to bad country piped through failing speakers, a eulogy for a friend starting and stopping in his head.

 

A friend had died today.

 

Morrison would’ve sent flowers to the family by now, Gabriel thought, a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the untouched liquid in his broken cup. He would’ve made a mournful statement on social media, taken a few questions, declared today an official day of mourning. Jack always knew exactly what to do when it came to honoring the dead.

 

He was allowed to, after all. He had the squeaky clean image, the blue-and-blonde features, the straight jaw. There was no stubble, no hair out of place, gloves over his hands so that they remained clean.

 

Did Jack know what it was like to wash human hair - tinged with coppery, dried blood - out from his fingernails? Did he know how it felt to turn the lights off and have to listen to the thrumming, thumping voices - whispers in the dark?

 

It was one thing to shoulder a rifle and fire at someone dozens of meters away, in a combat zone where the lines between friend and foe were clear as day, where your weapons were sanctioned in a squeaky clean board room, your kill counts bragging rights, and your prowess one that the public could be proud of.

 

It was another to sneak into an apartment at night, stand over a sleeping body, and carefully arrange a suicide. Where friend and foe were just words without definition, floating concepts, ghosts that got in the way. Where your weapons were whispered about in hushed voices, over the sound of music so loud that bugs couldn’t pick you up. Where your prowess was speculation and shame, hidden carefully under false identities, bribes, alibis.

 

Gabriel didn’t say a word to the figure who sat beside him, shifted her hawk eyes to probe at his profile. He lifted the chipped glass and drank slowly, the alcohol strong enough to make his left eye leak a little, his nose fill and his throat burn. He swallowed it, setting it back down gently, bare fingers rotating it on the counter. The glass left a wet trail of condensation, making it easy, satisfying, to slide it across the wood.

 

She lifted a finger, ordered a specific alcohol to hear the bartender’s confusion and blank stare.

 

“Vodka will do,” she responded, accent songlike, beautiful.

 

He scowled at the glass, tugged at his beanie with his free hand, refused to straighten his spine from the slouch it had slid into.

 

When the vodka was poured, she cupped it in both hands, probing gaze wandering over him. He could feel it skittering across his skin, leaving light scratch-like tension across his back.

 

His scowl deepened.

 

“If you are seen here,” Amari began, her voice soft, murmuring.

 

“I know,” he responded, clipped, voice tight.

 

“You run too many risks.”

 

Gabriel pushed the glass forwards, towards the bartender, and rested his elbows on the mahogany, staring at nothing.

 

“You are in pain,” she continued, “but you cannot be here today. You jeopardize too much.”

 

Gabriel nodded - one short, vicious bob of his head, his lips twisting downwards with the motion. Amari kept her hands cupped, kept probing him with that golden-eyed stare, kept sending little skitters up and down him.

 

“Gabriel,” she said, softly, “you need to go home.”

 

“I need to see him,” Gabriel said, tightly, “and I’ll go. That’s the deal. Could you tell him that?”

 

Ana shook her head. Gabriel’s hands clenched.

 

“Ana,  _ please. _ ”

 

“Go home, Gabriel. I’ll have him contact you.”

 

He whirled, gripping at her forearm, gaze wide, fury tattooed across them. Every single night mission, every morning spent scrubbing frantically at his skin, trying - failing - to wash the deeds free of his body flashed before his eyes as they met hers, locked with hers.

 

For a moment, he looked like he might beg further. He looked like a wounded animal that just wanted his share of the hunt.

 

For a moment, he looked desperate.

 

The moment passed, and he released her, stepping backwards, tugging his beanie over his eyebrows as he tossed a few bills onto the counter, shoved his barstool back.

 

“Tell him not to bother,” he said, boots thumping on the varnished wood floor as he made his way to the exit.

 

Behind his back, Ana raised the shot glass with trembling fingers to unsteady lips, drank deeply, and let out the breath she had been holding in a slow, harsh exhalation. She jumped slightly as the bar door slammed shut, shook out tension in her shoulders.

 

Then, she called Jack.

**Author's Note:**

> I was mostly inspired by a tumblr post sarcastically saying that it'd be a good idea for people to not turn Gabriel into this crazed monster for every single fic, and it got me thinking.
> 
> Reaper didn't start out crazy, obviously. He probably started out as a capable soldier who was willing to do more than other people in order to fulfill Overwatch's goals. But at some point during his long career of doing other people's dirty work, that changed and he became something terrible.
> 
> This was my attempt in exploring how that happened, how a mostly sane man became insane. I think it had a lot to do with these sorts of moments, where a man is looking for help, looking to get out of this tailspin, and nobody listened.


End file.
